I came swaggering into drawing group last night with my spanking new iPad, planning to dazzle everyone with my finger-drawing prowess. A wise man once said "Pride cometh before a fall." I hate that fucking wise man. My saying is "Self-satisfied pronouncements from pretentious old blowhards cometh before a poke in the snoot." But I digress. Ten minutes into drawing with my index finger, I realized how profoundly unnatural this act is. It's no coincidence that finger-painting generally stops at kindergarten. After half a dozen kindergarten-like false starts, I switched over to my book app and read for the rest of the session. Next week it's back to my iBook and graphics tablet. I comfort myself with the knowledge that I'm still light-years ahead of my colleagues who set up their "easels" and get out their "oil paints" and "sable brushes" and "turpentine" and "linseed oil" and paint while they listen to "Sister Souljah" on their "laser discs". Yes, I have it on good authority that at least one of them owns laser discs.